


Itinerant

by MystxMomo



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: HeartGold & SoulSilver | Pokemon HeartGold & SoulSilver Versions
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Coming of Age, Depersonalization, Depression, Finding Ones Self, Multi, Nuzlocke Challenge, Past Sex Work, Recreational Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, pokemon gijinka, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-08 23:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MystxMomo/pseuds/MystxMomo
Summary: Kimon’s parents had been in the mob.That was no secret. He’d grown up on romanticized tales of exploits, tales of grandeur and wealth. As he’d grown up, he’d learned that most of the tales had been tainted vanilla, and the sweet victories his mother paraded about were little more then gentle fantasies. She’d stopped telling them around the time they were old enough to remember - But it had been too late, and the tales had burnt into memory. Like a childhood tale gone sour.His parents had been in the mob. Past tense. Had been.~~Kioko has been on the run for about a year when she begins to think this was a very, very bad idea.





	Itinerant

**Author's Note:**

> Hi my names Red and I’m a Kemonomimi asshole!
> 
> Goal: 10k words.  
> Chapter One Word count: 12,271  
> Goal met.

There’s only one convenience stone in New Bark Town. 

It’s half an hour’s walk to the west of his home, where the roads slowly turn from strips in the grass to pressed dirt. It’s got a tin roof that he knows is hard on the ears when it rains, and the floorboards have long since lost their polish and shine. The door is left open to let air in, despite the fact that it’s probably the only building in town with a working AC, and dust catches thick in his lungs despite how still the air seems to be. When Kimon steps on the porch, the wood gives a high-pitched squeal in protest to his weight.

He refuses to go into the building.

“You’re being stubborn,” Denzi tells him, his head tilted and lips perked in a way that hintsthat his exasperation is for show. So, in turn, Kimon sits against the wood and allows himself to slide smoothly off it, certainly not for show. 

This is the third time they’ve had this conversation this month. This is the third time Kimon has not gone into the building this month.

He wins this standoff, naturally, because he’s stubborn and a bitch, and there’s only so much arguing that Denzi can stand before he just takes the sloppily written snack list and goes in for the both of them.

He waits maybe five minutes before he gets bored, and ten minutes before he realizes Denzi is taking his time specifically to fuck with him.

And that’s fine. His camera acts more like a fidget. Something to do while he waits for the man to pop his head back out from the store.

And it’s easy to pretend not to be eavesdropping, but he can only watch the single unedited video so many times. It's a decent length, maybe ten minutes, but he has it going at nearly triple the speed. He’s already marked out where the errors are in the piece, which parts he can frame and clash together. He’d mapped out where he wants certain edit cuts to be, where he needs to zoom in on the video for flourish. 

If he works quickly, they can have this video out by tonight. 

But he’s not going to work quickly, and they know that. And right now, he’s far more focused on tracking the sound of footsteps roaming about the building behind him. Denzi’s are easy to pick up on. He wears these shitty knee-high converse boots that make him heavy stepped, drags his right foot against the heel because his left is janked. The chains he wears on his hips end up hitting whatever he passes in the store when he turns too fast. 

He knows he’s at the register when he hears -

“Those things ain’t healthy for ya, y’know.” 

“Yeah,” Denzi, for what it’s worth, takes the comment in stride. Kimon is certain he’d had this answer scripted from the start, “I’m placing bets on which will kill me first, the knee or the Energy drinks! My bet’s currently on the energy drinks, but who knows? Sudden storm might wipe my feet straight out from under me. Leave me to rot in a ditch, I’d think!” 

A gravelly chuckle, “Ah,” he says, and he hears the creak of the chair the man had been resting on moving forward, “A league boy then, are ya?”

“Were,” Denzi stumbles, “Er-- Was, I guess. Can’t really fight when you can’t move.”

“Some would beg t’differ.” There’s a brief pause, “You’ve been in here a few times now. You’re Kimon’s friend, aren’t’cha?”

And though Kimon can’t see it, he knows Denzi’s answer would be to nod, “Oh, yes. Real good friends, sir. The incredibly close kind, you see. Just a couple of bro’s.” 

“Hm…” If that chuckle says anything, Kimon is very glad he didn’t go into this store, “Figured as much. We don’t really get too many new folk ‘round here. You gotta know a guy.”

“Really now?”

“Really.” The man’s voice is gruff, but there’s a bit of amusement tucked under it, “We’ve been wonderin’ when he’d bring someone home with him. His sibling there had a lil’ lady for a while, don’t know what happened to her-” he digs a bit behind the cash register, and Kimon knows this because it’s a hefty thing that dings when it’s opened and scrapes up the wood of desk it rests on, “Or his siblin’ for that matter. They all just disappeared off the face’a the earth one evening. Never even bothered comin’ round to say bye.”

Kimon hears the register close near as soon as it opens, and the man doesn’t bother to take a breath, “Here. That’s on me. Tell them two to come ‘round to visit e’ry once inna while. They have a tab they got’s to pick up.”

Denzi laughs, “Yeah. I’ll make sure of that,” He says, like a liar. He’s not going to tell him, and if he does it will only be for show.

When he steps into the light, Kimon watches his pupils blow up to match. They take a moment, the two of them. Denzi knows he’s been eavesdropping, and Kimon’s not willing. 

“I never liked that guy,” Kimon says, when they’re a far enough distance away from the shop that he knows he won’t be heard, “He’s kind of a prick.”

“I don’t know,” Denzi leans over just quick enough to steal a bite from the newly opened creamsicle in his hand, something Kimon allows unchallenged, “I think you’re just kind of an asshole.”

Summers in Johto had always been unbearably hot. 

It was a damp sort of heat, the type of heat that stuck clothing to skin and got deep into your hair. There’d been a storm the night before, you see. Rainwater lingered in pools in the fields around their house, the humidity crawling through the air like a slug and establishing itself before the light of morning even began to settle.

His mother’s traditional sukiya home had not been built for air conditioning. The wooden beams not built to host the vents and box necessary to maintain one, and the paper panelling allowed the cool air to sink through its walls, and. 

So they pushed the walls open as far as they’d go, hoping that the fans running on high and wistful breeze would be enough to fight against the wave of heat that comes with the mid-day droll. They sit seated far enough apart that their feet touch, but arms do not, and they sit deep enough in the house that the sun has long since stopped touching the wood.

He'd thought the heat was something that would bother Denzi far more than it does. Instead, the man takes it in stride. He pulls his hair up into a ponytail and ignores that the colored strands stick up in the humidity. Balances his laptop against his knee so he can lay on his side and prevent the heat of it from blistering his lap. He’s splayed out in a way Kimon knows would be easy to knock him over, but in truth, so is he. So, he does the polite thing and doesn’t push him over like he knows he could. 

“I think the part I miss most about traveling,” Kimon tells him, as he moves to snatch the Monster (Long since warmed) from Denzi’s side, “Pokemon Centers always had air conditioning. Always. You know what they did when one broke? Fixed it. Know how they never would have fuckin’ built the building?”

“Yeah,” Denzi says in a way that tells him he’s not really paying attention, which is fine, he’s bitched about this before. Probably using the same spiel. 

“Didn’t really need air conditioning in Sinnoh,” Denzi adds as an afterthought, like he hasn’t been there himself. Kimon goes to speak, but Denzi beats him to it. Leans over, and whips his phone out like they hadn’t just been in the middle of a conversation, and in that moment Kimon considers following through on his threat of pushing him over, “You know the latest and greatest youtube trend is ‘what’s in my bag’ videos, right?” 

He blinks, barely registering the degree Denzi had turned the conversation. But he’s used to this- Of course he’s used to this, and he humours the man. Glances down at the phone just long enough to get what he’s throwing down.

“Yeah,” It’s Kimon’s turn to sound completely and utterly apathetic, because he doesn’t particularly care to follow trends or challenges. He’d done one or two, once. Back when he’d just started posting videos, and had been mostly searching to fuck about against Denzi’s. 

But Denzi...

Denzi LOVED trends. Had a particular talent for making things his own when he found them. It’d been something he’d noticed even before he started talking to him personally, when he’d just been watching the man’s videos casually. While Kimon had been but a simple chump that had shoved cinnamon and wasabi on his tongue, Denzi found a way to make something different of it by breaking down the challenge piece by painstaking piece, finding the origin of the challenge and the video that’d taken off. He’d broken down why cinnamon choked, and wasabi stung, all thrown together in windows movie maker in painstaking three-hundred and sixty pixels.

And THEN he too had shoved cinnamon and wasabi on his tongue, because he was nothing if not a fool as well.

“Well, we should do something with it,” Denzi tells him, like that should explain it all. Kimon feels unwilling to move from his spot on the floor. 

“Aren’t you working on a playthrough right now?” Kimon asks, and makes sure that when he lowers the phone it’s something pointed and sharp. Goes so far as to hook his nails around the edge of it, “Besides. I don’t think I need to point this one out, but you’re not traveling, you don’t have a bag to show off.”

The man’s eyes light up. Literally light up. The room is dim enough that he can see the current glow yellow, and a few sparks fly across his teeth with the grin. It’s unintentional, and the resulting smell of iron is something he decides not to comment on, “I’m not going to be the one to show it off,” Denzi tells him, pridefully. As though he’s got a plan in store.

“I don’t have a bag either, moron,” He tells him, and that should be the end of the conversation. 

_“So! There’s a lot of videos going around of people showing off what’s in their bag, or what they packed up when they started traveling for the league. Yeah- I don’t carry any bags on me, and I fought in the league like 5 fuckin’ years ago, so that’s not fuckin’ happening,” Kimon points to the camera in what’s supposed to be a noncommital shrug, “But you know what I do have?”_

_There’s a beat. His eyes meet Denzi’s behind the camera._

_“A giant fuckin’ shed.”_

There's an old shed in their yard that his mother originally had built to store what could not stay in a house whose walls were moved and changed by season, and could not be left to the elements to rot and crumble. Some gardening tools here, an old bed-stand there. Most of the items in the shed had long ago been forgotten, the love for them lingering enough to keep but distant enough not to miss.

They first dig through the shed in an attempt to find something to do.

"We can make a video on this," Denzi says, as he pointly aims the camera they share in his direction. Denzi has his own, of course. But the quality is worse, and Kimon is waiting for the man’s birthday to drop the money on a new one for him. Denzi would otherwise be angry as piss if he HAD spent the money on him.

(Still, it’s probably something he’d let slip only an hour after having the thought.)

"What's in your shed, Kimon?" 

" _Not my sexuality, apparently…_ " He mutters to himself in a language that is not common, just low enough that he knows the camera won’t catch it. There’s a bark of laughter from the man behind him, the sound stale in the dirty air.

"The saying is closet, but close enough I guess," Denzi's correction is sly, and carefully in the same language as Kimon. He’ll have to subtitle the interaction later, if they decide to include it. He probably won’t. There were some aspects of his life he liked to keep quiet.

Here’s the thing, though.

The lighting in this shot would be absolutely god awful.

He tells Denzi as much, and makes a point to mention it on camera. The fact that it’s something he actively thinks about nowadays is odd, but natural nonetheless. Sunlight streams in through the mud stained window, dust and dirt catching in lines. There’s a few holes in the roof that cut through the shade, leaving no consistency in the shadows of the room. He thinks the camera is going to have a hard time focusing on him with so many objects in the background.

Not like they can set up any equipment in here, either.

It’s a bit disappointing, but he’s sure he’ll manage somehow.

There’s an old dresser shoved in the back. He thinks that it might be water damaged, because some of the surface has this odd grey color to it, while the rest of it is this pretty pristine brown that has held up surprisingly well throughout the years. It’s the only flat object in the room with nothing shifted on top of it, stable and unassuming.

Everything else has something. A box of clothing eaten away by moths, a stack of books intentionally placed in the drier side of the shed. There’s even a box of baby photos out here, which he’s not too willing to share with the man behind him.

It’s not like he’s going to be pulling out the dresser to use it or anything though, so he just climbs on top of it to get a better look around the shed instead.

“Be careful…” Denzi warns, messing with the camera settings as he does. Kimon rolls his eyes, and makes a point to kick off the top drawer even harder.

Yeah. That sure is a lot of junk.

There’s a pile of boxes, plastic and cardboard, shoved off in the back of the room. It blocks what he thinks is the other window in the shed, and the light that streams through the cracks catches on cobwebs and dust. 

There’s a table somewhere closer to him that has a pair of dirty shoe-prints on it. It’s stained with bright paint and neon orange nail-polish, scuffed up from years of use and mis-use. 

The air is warm, and stuffy. 

“See anything interesting?” Denzi asks, as soon as he has the camera stable enough to let go of. Kimon props his chin up on his leg and gives a pointed look in his direction

“If you count cobwebs and boxes as interesting, then uh- Yeah. Lots of interesting shit.”

Denzi rolls his eyes, playful and pointed, “Alright, smartass. I’ll keep looking myself.”

There’s a dusty basket filled with gardening tools and old seed packets. A good five or six years back (He’d been fourteen or something?) his brother had gotten particularly into gardening. Their mother gave him his own line in the yard next to their house, and he’d spent a good half the year googling how to take care of plants in very specific fashions. He’s almost positive he still sees the print out pages, tucked into the edge and yellowed with age.

He’d lost interest the year after. But for a while, he’d played with the thought that Thales would choose to evolve into a Leafeon.

There’s an old box on the uppermost shelf of the shed, maybe about the size of the tv his mother had gotten back in the nineties. It’s covered in dust from years of exile and made of a red hued wood, and he catches it out of the corner of his eye because he’s trying to get to the stack of DVDs two shelves under it. In turn, it’s just barely out of his reach. 

Which means, naturally, it’s the thing he wants most.

"Hey, help boost me up," Kimon says suddenly, turning to finally glance into the camera like it’s the most dramatic thing he’s done this month. It is the most dramatic thing he’s done this month, for all intents and purposes. 

"That's dangerous," Denzi points out. But Kimon knows he’s not going to say no, and he proves as much by coming over to help Kimon down from his current stand.

“Hey, rather you’d lift me up than try and jump up the shelves.”

“Kimon, you’re like 6’2,” Denzi says, in a way that is absolutely not complaining, “Now, don’t get me wrong - Hot, but also, I don’t think I’m going to be able to hold you steady for /that/ long.”

He shrugs, non-committal, “I just need the boost up, right? I can steady myself between the shelf and the uhh..” He considers it momentarily, glancing around to see what else was around. And Denzi, for what it’s worth, watches him with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. And he knows by the look on his face that he’s probably already figured out a route up that doesn’t require his help, but that he’s waiting. Waiting for something to click.

And it doesn’t, “It’ll be fine,” Kimon finally brushes it off, “I’m like, ninety percent sure that I’ll have it down within a second.”

“Well alright. But I did warn you.”

Denzi favors his left leg while lifting him. 

It's to no fault of his own. His right leg can't help to hold the weight of both of them, even with Kimon shifting half his mass onto the plastic boxes next to him. He's surprised Denzi can really lift him at all. But they manage to get high enough that he can grab onto the shelf, heave himself up and kick one of his legs onto the wall under him. He feels Denzi release him, and in turn stumble back a few steps to catch his balance.

The box is on the third shelf up. He is currently two shelves down.

“Hold on…” Kimon mutters, nails digging into the splintered and rotting wood. Really, it’s a miracle it can hold his weight. He can feel the way old wood begins to bend and pull as he pushes himself up. He lets his nails dig into the rot, preferring that than the splinters that would come from the drier (Albeit more sturdy) side.

He supposes that’s his first mistake.

He lifts himself.

Denzi lets go of his waist, mutters something sharp as he shakes his leg out. Steps back to watch.

The shelf is able to hold his weight, for a time.

His height and weight are disproportionate to one another, and he knows that well. So, when he climbs the shelves, ladder-like, he’s positive that despite the rot it will hold him steady.

His fingers touch the metal edges, feet scrape against the dirt stained wall of the shed. He thinks that maybe there’s a chance he can heave himself up onto the final shelf, grab the handle of the box, and bounce back down. The shelf might just be sturdy enough yet.

He hears a slight creak. 

And there’s this moments pause where he realizes that this might not have been the best idea. Quiet, but humbling.

And then Kimon’s on the ground, and the only thing he registers is probably a shelf’s worth of objects crashing to the floor around him.

_“Fuck!”_

The good thing about this is that he is an umbreon. Being an umbreon, he does not cry over shitty situations, like having a box full of tools and knick knacks and what have you fall on his head. It’s unlikely it will bruise, let alone bleed, and he’s only momentarily dazed from the hit. 

However, it also means he just made an ass of himself in front of his boyfriend. Possibly on camera.

“Kimon holy shit...” 

Oh yeah, definitely on camera. 

There’s a snapping sound, to which Kimon’s ear twitches, and his eyes squeeze together to drown out the remaining light in the room.

“Hey, are you alright?” He feels Denzi shift to sit beside him. He’s warm, disgustingly so. They’re both covered in a layer of sweat, to the point that Kimon does not want to be touched.

He still follows the man’s hands when Denzi tilts his head to the side to investigate, "Shit, hold still.."

"I'm FINE," He snaps, though the irritation is shallow, and sharp. Denzi scoffs at it.

"You’re bleeding, dumbass,” The word is said with a nauseating amount of worry, “Hold still.”

Huh. Maybe an umbreon doesn’t stop him from receiving minor flesh wounds.

“I’m fine,” He repeats, this time purposefully less irritated. He’s not angry, doesn’t want to appear angry. And if Denzi takes his words for anger, he’s certainly good at hiding that fact. 

“Yeah, you’re probably fine,” Denzi says, but still pulls on his arm, “But you’re gonna get blood in your eyes sitting like that. Come on.”

And Kimon follows him. Unquestioned, and with purpose. 

His mother's hair holds brilliant shades of peach and cream, and has bows that flutter and twirl pointedly in the air as she chops at the vegetables on her cutting board. Her hair is pushed up into a bun on her head, and there’s a layer of dirt on the upperpart of her arm. The area a quick hand wash would miss, and layer of sweat would stick. 

When they come in and sit at the table, she barely bats an eye at the two of them. Simply points out the direction of the first aid kit with one of her feelers, and goes back to cutting away at the celery sticks and leeks.

“What were you two even doing out there?” She asks, around the time Denzi starts prodding at him with cotton balls. It’s less mad, and more curious. His mother, afterall, is rarely mad. She keeps an air of composure to her, quiet and certain. When she looks between the two of them, the look is one of knowing. As though she already expects the answer she gets.

He’s long since grown out of the age of thinking his mother knows everything, of course. But she still holds herself as though she does. 

“Making videos for the internet,” He says, monotoned, “Obviously. Hey, shit-”

“It’s going to get infected if it’s not cleaned, Shut the fuck up,” Denzi leans over to press the alcohol swab farther into the wound. It burns, of course, and he hisses venomously at the Luxio in turn. Literally feels the venom begin to develop on his tongue, something he’s quick to snap shut and swallow down.

“I know basic goddamn first aid Denzi-” he presses down with intent, and Kimon’s ears fly back, “It STINGS you dick. You KNOW what you’re doing!”

“Mhm,” he pitches the red dyed cotton ball at the trashcan, and just barely misses it. He mutters something under his breath Kimon doesn’t entirely catch, “Oh, yeah. The shelf broke. That’s kinda how… Sorry about that, Mrs. Maheras,” Denzi says it with as much of an apologetic tone as he would. Careless, and whimsical. But the tone he levels to is low, and he evens his gaze down when he glances his mothers way.

Respect is an odd look on the man, and it’s still disconcerting to see him fumble.

His mother sighs, but it’s dramatic, and show-y in a way he knows he can’t personally mimic, “I’ve been meaning to get part of the shelf fixed up anyway. It’s little more than a sign, I suppose,” She pushes the vegetables into the boiling water, careless about the knife in her hand.

It’s too hot to be eating soup, he thinks. But he’s not ungrateful, and too lazy to make something else for the day. 

Besides. The spices she uses smell homely, and warm. 

His stomach turns… At the feeling of having pressure on his wound again, he means.

“ _Dude_ ,” Kimon finally just reaches up and grabs his hand, light but ever so pointed. They share a look. Denzi mulls over how serious this is, and Kimon holds his hand just barely in reach.

“Ah. Sorry,” Denzi’s tone quiets, realizative, and he pulls back, “Here. Let me finish applying the bandage, at least.”

Kimon side eyes him, off put. But his tone is genuine, and he’s already fumbling with the bandaid. So, he says nothing against it. 

His mother takes a seat across from them, sliding the a cup of tea he hadn’t noticed her making his way. It’s too hot for tea. Denzi notices the look he gives the cup (Not intended to be harsh, but certainly not kind), and does him the honor of not needing to tell his mother he holds no interest in it by grabbing it before he does.

She smiles.

“Oh, I guess better late than ever. Can we actually like, go through that stuff? I just kinda assumed, but there was a lot of shit out there,” Denzi asks, as he takes a sip of his tea. It obviously hadn’t been sitting for long, because there’s a quick second where Kimon sees how his eyes bulge, and he forces himself to swallow. Blows out onto his tongue a few times, as if to prove the point. 

When Kimon snorts, it’s not because he’s witnessing some level of instant karma. Absolutely not. He’d never, because that would be rude to his boyfriend. 

The look Denzi shoots him is one of exasperation, and he _can’t_ figure out why.

“Oh, hm,” She looks as though she hadn’t considered it either. Something thoughtful crosses her expression, as though she’s going through the shed piece by piece in the back of her mind, “Well. I think most of it is junk…” She admits, after a moment’s time, “I was going to clean it out when I got it fixed, but most of it is just going into the trash….” She takes a sip of her own tea, and her reaction is far less dramatic, “I don’t see why not.”

Denzi smiles at him, knowing. When he goes to take another sip of tea, he’s careful to blow gently on it this time around.

“You got a lot of neat stuff out there,” Denzi points out, propping his chin up on his hand. He’d always sucked up to his mother. Granted, Kimon ALSO sucked up to his mother. But between the two of them, they know well most of what’s in there is junk. His mother knows what’s in there is junk.

“You’d be surprised at what can collect over the years,” Is what she decides on, “I might go through and see if anyone in town needs anything. I know the Hirata’s girl was beginning to talk about taking on the league… It would be rude if I didn’t give her something to help on her way...”

“Oh, it’s about time,” Denzi nods along, despite the fact he only knows the name in passing. When he leans forward, his tail lashes, and he grins, “She should have taken on the league a while ago, right?”

Kimon rolls his eyes and sinks down in his chair. He had no way of knowing that.

His mother humors him, though perhaps more because she’s in the beginning stages of getting lost in thought than anything else, “Yes, yes… I think there might be a few quilts out there I can clean up for her…”

“Nothing better than homemade-”

Kimon groans, “Denzi.”

“Don’t be rude we’re in the process of making about very important plans, Kimon,” Denzi raises his hand, but shoots him a half grin that shows how disingenuous half this is. The other half is the evil, bastardization of how much his boyfriend enjoys seeing him crumble at the first sign of smalltalk.

“Denzi, you wanted to go through that box,” Kimon says, because he wants an out. His mom is willing to give him an out, because she laughs into her cup with trembling shoulders, and closed eyes. 

His boyfriend is not willing to give him an out.

“I wanted to go through that box?”

“Yes,” Kimon pushes his hands through his hair, “Please. We wanted to get our video out before we die.”

“You die,” Denzi corrects. Still. This is about the time he’s finally willing to drop it. He knows this, because Denzi gulps down his tea, in one fell swoop, and plucks the glass up to bring it to the sink, “I’ll tell you what Mrs. Maheras. We’ll talk later. I know you’ve gone through this before, but I can help remind you of the sort of things a traveler needs on their journey,” He taps his head, lets the ear with the gauge twitch down, “I’ve made a video on it, so obviously I know what I’m talking about.”

“Obviously,” His mother says, “I’ll be sure to keep in touch. A challenge, when I’m talking to an expert in his field.”

Denzi gives a half bow. Kimon pushes his seat out just to get away.

“Come on,” Denzi finally turns to Kimon, “I hope your box was worth the head-wound. If nothing else, I guess we’ll do another truth or dare round.”

“Man, we just did that two weeks ago. It’s going to lose its wonder if we do it too often!” He calls out, just as Denzi is bound to leave the room. 

He gives a final half smile to his mom, who watches them with a raise of an eyebrow. But her expression is amused, and she seems willing to finally let him leave her clutches. 

“Oh, yes!” Her ears perk up, quick, and he has to pretend that he doesn’t see the spark of mischief cross her eyes, “Kimon, as your mother I feel as though there’s something I need to remind you of,” When she claps, it’s to reset her mood, and she goes so far as to take a sip of her tea before she says it. Because his mother had always been one for subtle dramatics. It means he’s left standing there in the doorway, hand rubbing against bandage in the sort of way he knows will eventually get to him.

She looks him in the eye when she says, “Just heal yourself, dear.” 

Kimon’s parents had been in the mob.

That was no secret. He’d grown up on romanticized tales of exploits, tales of grandeur and wealth. As he’d grown up, he’d learned that most of the tales had been tainted vanilla, and the sweet victories his mother paraded about were little more then gentle fantasies. She’d stopped telling them around the time they were old enough to remember - But it had been too late, and the tales had burnt into memory. Like a childhood tale gone sour.

His parents had been in the mob. Past tense. Had been. 

It’s not something he thinks about too often. It wasn’t like it had left this burning hole in his life. Not most days. It wasn’t like most of his associates were mobmen (He’d met most of them online, really), he hadn’t gone to some fancy richmen’s school (His mother was probably loaded, but he’d been homeschooled), and most of the fighting and magic he’d learned had been in his league days (Not that his mother would know much magic he could use, let alone master).

Still. When the first thing he pulls from the box is a knife, he thinks back to his roots. 

“Woah there,” Denzi says, as Kimon turns the blade over in his hand. They’d brought the box in first thing after dinner. His mother’s expression had been confused, then concerned. It was a flash of an expression, like she’d remembered something she shouldn’t have, but hadn’t wanted to go back on her word

Her word, after all, had always been particularly important to her. 

“Relax, it’s dull,” As if to prove his point, he slides the edge of it across the base of his palm Though he doesn’t add much pressure to it, and it doesn’t leave a scratch, the look on Denzi’s face is one of sick discomfort. His ears turn back, and hair pricks, and so he stops. A bad topic to fuck with him on, he supposed.

The blade has his father’s name etched into it (Eros, on both sides,) the handle leather and patterned. If he looks close enough, there’s a bit of rust to it, and Kimon picks it up and presses the tip of it against his finger he lets it spin helplessly like a top in his hand. The action isn’t to particularly fuck with Denzi this time. Rather, thoughtless, so he could get a better observation of the knife.

“Alright,” Denzi still reaches over to snatch the blade from his hands, and he’s not careful in tossing it to the side, “You’re hilarious, can we move on.”

Kimon’s tempted to snark him, but it had been unintentional, and he’s no reason to defend himself on it. Denzi is already distracted anyway, because there’s another box in the box. It’s small. One of those fancy sorts, small enough to fit in his hand, but big enough that when Denzi shakes it, he can tell it holds weight. Something in it rattles, and-

“Oh!” Denzi says, like a kid that just discovered an unwrapped candy bar under the backseat of their mother’s van, “It’s a dice box!”

“It could be money,” Kimon points out.

It was not money. It was just dice.

Denzi sucks in a breath of air between his teeth as he looks at them, face turned in the sort of disappointed way that normally only came with losing a phone, or wallet, “Dammit. They’re the boring kind,” He plucks two of them out from the middle of the box, ruining how tightly the rest are tucked against card deck, “Just some six siders.”

“Just because a dice isn’t a d20 doesn’t mean that it’s suddenly boring, Denzi,” He watches the way the man rolls them about in his hands, makes sure to lean back to give him room to throw them.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about and I do. D20 are unarguably the best dice style, and that’s because I said so,” Denzi hums it out in a song, as though he’d had the entire remark planned from the moment he’d opened the box. He probably had. He’d probably had it planned since the moment he’d met Kimon, and discovered he could utter the word “Drow” around him and have context for what he was talking about.

Denzi throws them about the ground anyway. Once, just because he wants to, and twice, because he notices the look Kimon gives him at the sudden scattering of dice.

“Oh ho! Suddenly not so boring. Kimon, I think these dice are loaded!” And a third time, for good measure, “Yes! Loaded. Kimon your mom cheats-” 

“Have you played cards with her before? Of course she cheats, there’s no way in hell someone’s that good at poker,” Kimon goes to steal the set away from him, but it’s plucked away from his grasp the moment his fingers touch wood.

“It’s mine now,” Denzi tells him, sliding it carefully behind his form. And hell if Kimon is arguing with that.

There’s something wrapped in cloth atop the uppermost layer of letters. It catches his attention first, because the cloth is bright purple, and stained with dark brown patches he can uncomfortably recognize as dried blood.

Still, he’s shameless about reaching to grab it. Not like it was something he hadn’t touched before.

It’s weighty in his hand, heavier then he expects, and when he throws it up it almost immediately falls to the floor with a thunk. It’s- a large chunk of crystal, ruby, if he had to make an obvious guess. It’s a little too large to be a marble, and especially too large to be made for a ring. So he’s left turning it over in his hand once or twice, checking for cracks, and holding it up to the light as though it will give him an answer.

It doesn’t, and he’s left just as confused as when he first pulled it out.

Across from him, Denzi is holding a pair of hair pins, twirling them in his fingers to observe them in full. They’re roses, possibly made out of gold if the color and damage is about correct. He tilts his head at them, confused, using the sharp end (That is absolutely NOT gold, if the color and lack of damage is correct) to poke at his finger, and wince away when he realizes how sharp it is.

“They’re hair pins,” Kimon says, holding up what he’s still assuming is a ruby for show, “But if you can tell me what the fuck this is, I won’t tease you for cutting yourself on them.”

“What the fuck are hair pins,” 

“They’re- You know?” He mimes the motion of throwing hair up into a bun, because he doesn’t have enough hair to do that anymore, “Like, you use them to style your hair or something? My ‘ma still uses them.”

“Oh! That’s what they’re called? I just kinda thought they were pencils,” Now he squints at the orb, “It looks like a ruby, by the way.”

“Yeah, but like what’s it for?”

“I don’t know, man. Your mom’s rich, I just kinda assume she owns weird rich people shit,” Which he supposes is just of good of a reply as any. 

Denzi is noticeably careful when he puts the hair pins down, and Kimon is less so when he rolls the ruby next to them.

They pull out the stack of letters next, bundled tight with twine, most unopened. 

Kimon doesn’t want his mother to know they’re going through her things. They have her permission, but he feels weird dicking through her writing. So he tosses it carefully to the side and pretends he’s not curious about the letters’ contents.

The post cards under it are given similar treatment, if only because the bottom most layer has nothing on the back of it. Instead, their attention is turned to a small silver jar, lid squeezed tightly on and kept relatively sealed over the years.

He thinks maybe it’s makeup, because the powder is thin and it glitters in the light. But when Denzi takes it from his hand his eyes light up with recognition, and he pops it open with purpose.

“Oh, it’s magic,” Denzi says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Kimon takes it back from his hand, a little more carefully than it was taken from him, and gives it a small sniff. He’s careful not to inhale the stuff as he does, “Really? It doesn’t smell like magic.”

“Well, it’s old magic, obviously,” It’s stolen from his hands again, and this time he lets Denzi take it, “Possibly Silver Powder? I think this stuff is old, so the enchantment’s probably worn off. But you’re supposed to like, incorporate it into your magic?” He rubs the powder between his fingers and takes a moment to think, “Some of my old teammates use to use it. I never saw the purpose. Then again-”

He flicks it in Kimon’s direction with a grin. He thinks he sees sparks travel along his teeth.

“Alright, my turn to play adult,” Kimon snatches it back, in the process spilling some from the bottle. It sticks to his hands, falls into the cracks on the floor, and scatters on his formally black skinny jeans. It gets everywhere, as glitter does.

So he takes it as cue to seal it tight and add it to their now officially established pile.

If he sees Denzi snatch it back, he’ll pretend not to.

“What the fuck is this thing?” Denzi asks him, as he holds up what he assumes is, at first, another box. It wouldn’t have surprised him, there’s more then enough boxes already stacked high that they’ve dug out that would justify the thought. But then he sees the metal bars atop of it, and he catches the way Denzi’s nails scrape across the sides. Hollow, then.

Denzi easily holds it with two hands. When he plucks one of the bars, a note to a melody chimes through the air. 

“Well,” Kimon is already pulling out his phone, “It IS an instrument.”

“What kind?”

He “Pshes,” gives a shrug, “Man, fuck if I know?? It’s hollow, it’s got like, a hole in the middle of it. I don’t gotta be a fucking genius to know it’s an instrument.”

“Dammit, you’re the music man. Are you telling me you don’t just know these things?” Denzi’s eyebrows scrunched down, and he leans closer to Kimon, inches just close enough to poke his chest. Which is fine, because the heat from earlier is leaving the air, and the humidity is unavoidable comparatively. 

He decides not to humor him this time, and uses his phone to push his fingers away. A quick google search does nothing for him, and he’s not invested in it well enough to care. When he relays as much, Denzi hardly looks nonplussed.

“Damn,” is all he says, “So much for that.”

So it’s added to the pile.

There’s a notebook that had been tucked under the thing, neglected and disfigured. The front of it is half torn apart, and the pencil etchings show through the crack. The pages are so yellowed that Kimon thinks they might deteriorate if he touches it for too long. 

Kimon picks it up anyway.

He finds that notes, music notes, are written into the pages. Some of the pages are practiced and careful. Like the person had been thinking on what note to write for a while, or’d been transferring a piece. Others are written hurriedly, borderline unreadable, like they’d simply needed to get the thought down before they’d lose it. 

It’s a feeling Kimon can’t help but relate to, or perhaps just project onto.

And when he stops on a middle page, he thinks on it for a moment. He thinks he might remember his mother humming it when she was younger, or hearing the tune played on a piano. One that has long since fallen out of recent memory. Familiar enough to ring a bell when he follows it by sight of note alone, but not to place a name to it, and he makes a note to try and play it later on their grand piano. 

It hasn’t gotten much use these days.

He feels kind of bad about that.

“You know the song?” Denzi asks, conversationally, backs himself close enough to Kimon to rest his head on his shoulder and read the notes with him. He imagines it would make less sense to Denzi than it does him. He’s been told he played guitar for a few years (Something about wanting to start a shitty garage band). But it reads like piano music, and piano sheet music is a far different beast than guitar tabs to the untrained eye. He’d be able to read between the two, naturally, because he kick ass at maybe one thing. But he’s also never actually heard Denzi play so he doesn’t know how much bullshit he’s spouting.

“I think?” Is his elegant response, and he fumbles over the next few pages, “The composition is uh.. Interesting? I’m not really sure what they were going for with it…” He trails off, chewing against the end of his nail as he follows the notes from page to page. Stops on one of the middle pages to say, “This one is written like it’s supposed to replicate my anxiety or some shit.”

Denzi isn’t impressed, “Kimon, your video humor is leaking into real life.”

“You think it’s a joke,” He scoffs, and in the end files the notebook off to the side and makes note to photocopy them when he has time. 

They’ve pushed a small pile of cassette tapes off to the side, carefully balancing the far larger pile... Piles, of polaroids next to them. The tapes are inherently worthless at the moment. Each has a label, a date, and a time. But they currently have no way of viewing them. Kimon used to have an old VHS player in his room, pushed under the TV with a few old movies he’s forgotten the name of.

But the player broke, and the tapes they’re looking at are too small to fit in a standard VHS player.

The polaroids on the other hand...

“Hey,” Kimon says, nonchalantly, as Denzi goes to pluck the first polaroid off the top of the pile and study it, “You know, I never knew my dad.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Kimon considers the thought. It’s never bothered him before, and he doubts this discovery will have it suddenly lingering in the back of his mind now. His mother had never had anything good to say about the man, and really, he’d never been assed to push past that.

He tells Denzi as much, and adds on with a quiet, “I think maybe it’s better to think about him as their weird abstract figure that got into fights with my mom then it is to think he was a chill guy that just decided to leave one day.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of them. Denzi studies his face as though trying to figure out where exactly to go next.

“Hey so full offense,” Denzi says, with that shit-eating grin, “But your dad was kind of hot.”

He spins the polaroid around so Kimon can see it.

On the back of each photo is a time, a date, and a place. This photo is too far away for Kimon to actually see, even while squinting. But he can see the picture Denzi is pointing at. The figure is in the distance, sitting on the ledge of a building he wouldn’t know the location of. It’s easy to assume he’s his father. Even from a distance, he carries the same markings around his eyes as Kimon. Bright red instead of gold, granted, but markings nonetheless.

“I’m-” Kimon looks at him like he wants to punch him, “Going to break up with you, one day.”

“Yeah,” He pushes the photo aside, and moves onto the next one. His voice lacks the concern it should at the statement, and he continues on while holding up the next photo, “Like, he’s too much of a hunk to be more then a one night stand. But I think if I got like, a little drunk, it wouldn’t be off the cards-”

“Do you ever like, think about what you’re saying?” Kimon asks, shoving his face into his hands and drawing back on his hair, “For more than half a second?”

Denzi scratches at the hair on his chin in mock thoughtfulness, “Not to say he’s the only one you got your looks from. I mean, looking at your mom…”

That’s enough to get Kimon to bolt up, “ENOUGH!” His voice cracks, and he’s pushing Denzi off him. Denzi snorts, goes to open his mouth again. Kimon stops him in his tracks, “No, listen to me. Speaking about the dead is fine, but speaking about the living is crossing a line-”

“Alright, I got you, I got it. I’m sorry,” He places the first polaroid down, and takes his time shuffling through the rest of them. There’s enough that they’ve needed to stack them in about three even piles, each of which get shuffled into smaller piles as they look between them. Some are labeled with a marker, sloppy and quick. Others look as though they’ve been taken yesterday. 

“Hm,” Denzi says the next stupid thing, which is a shame, because he’s really supposed to be the smart one between the two of them, “Your mother kind of got around, didn’t she?”

Kimon’s expression is blank, “Did you just call my mom a slut?” A pause, “After the conversation we just had?”

“Well yeah, I guess! But- Okay, dude, look at all of these,” When Denzi pushes the pictures in his face his is at least careful about it. Kimon takes a moment to glance between the lot of them, and- yeah, to his credit, he could see where he’d get the idea. He’s been pulling out the pictures of his mother, younger, still a Sylveon, shuffling them together to create something of a sloppy pile.

But he’s right. To an untrained eye, his mother draped across the lap of some willowly blonde woman, cigarette hanging out of her mouth and laugh on her lips… Then in the next picture blowing smoke in the face of some bug species he’d not know the name of? It could be pretty disconcerting, if not laughable. 

But something clicks in Kimon’s head, an understanding of sorts that settled uncomfortably in the back of his mind.

He still decides not to tell him about his heritage, instead plucks the lot from Denzi’s hand and just shoves them aside.

“Alright, but you’re also-- God, I- I don’t even know if I can call you a slut in good faith.”

Denzi leans back, tilts his head up and considers it for a while, “I’ll allow it once. I mean, you’d be wrong, but I’ll still allow it.”

He rolls his eyes, and the subject is dropped.

Denzi pulls out a red velvet pouch. Its trimmings are golden and the string is pulled tight, and it only takes him a moment of hassle with it before he bites down on the string and just chews it thin with the sharp of his teeth. He thinks he may see a spark light up in his mouth, and it’s confirmed only moments later, when the smell of burnt silk and magic linger heavy in the air. 

“You know I could have just- Cut it with scissors, right?” 

“That sounds like the weakass way to go about it,” he licks at his teeth in response, as though attempting to get rid of the burnt bits of fabric that inevitably lingered in his mouth, “Besides, do you actually know where the scissors are? This is easier too,”

“Yeah, and your mouth is going to taste like you just ate a pile full of feathers for the next few hours. So really, who is the real loser here?”

Denzi rolls his eyes, and as though pointedly, pours out the contents of the bag.

His eyes catch sight of the pearls first.

It’s funny, really. The light in their room is low, even with the TV on in the corner and the open wall letting a setting sun turn the room shades of orange and red. Despite that, the string of pearls catches the light and the orb in the middle of it all but glows as it absorbs the light.

He grabs it, twists the beads through his fingers and gives an experimental tug.

“Huh,” Denzi tilt’s his head in an attempt to follow Kimon’s hands, in an attempt to watch the way the bead’s slide through his fingers, “It’s broken,”

He hesitates, not because he’s thinking of something to say, but because he’s not quite sure what he means at first. But after another look at it, he realizes that Denzi is right. The biggest orb on the string is cracked like glass, the light catching along a net of shards and lines inside the teal shell. He takes a moment to stare, as though trying to figure out where one crack starts and another ends.

“Huh,” Is what he ends up mimicking, when he finally figures out that the orb isn’t just a really big pearl, “Alright.”

As though already bored with it (He probably is), Denzi reaches out to grab a bracelet with wooden beads and shells. Unlike the necklace, the bracelet seems to at least be serviceable. The wood is light, hiding the wear and tear of age well. The shells are scratched and torn, but adds to the rustic feeling of the piece. It’s made of twine, and when Denzi attempts to push it on finds it hangs loosely off his wrist.

“I can try tightening it?” Kimon offers, carefully placing the pearls he’d been holding back into the obsolete pile of shit they’d slowly been managing to grow.

“Nah, nah. I’d feel weird takin’ jewelry from your mom,” He stares at the man, then the dicebox that has been carefully tucked away behind him, then back to the man, “Nothing EXPENSIVE. I’ll buy her another deck of cards! In fact, lets go do that now. I can get one for like two bucks at the convenience store.”

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s just really ironic,” Kimon leans back, and for the first time that night offers what he thinks might be his own mischievous smile, “I think it’s funnier you think this thing costs more than ten dollars max.”

“What? Nah, it’s handmade. It’s gotta be twenty dollars, at least.”

And so, he allows the bracelet to join the pile as well.

There’s a few rings, but what’s engraved on it is in a language Kimon doesn’t know, and they don’t fit either of their fingers. There’s a few keys, and while one of them is elegant, and curled, the other just looks like a house key. So he decides he has no use for them, and drops the back into the now broken pouch.

There’s a book at the base, made of thick leather with a dark brand steeped into the hide. It’s locked tight, though Kimon thinks if he really wanted to he could pick the lock with a comfortable amount of ease.

“Jesus,” Denzi says, when Kimon hands it over for him to add to their pile, “No wonder it was so heavy. I think this thing is like half the weight of the chest.”

There’s a map of Johto, before Johto had unified with Kanto into one league. He knows this because Johto is the only land mass on the map, and because it cuts off exactly near Mount Silver. The map has scribbles drawn about it, red and green and in glitter pen, with words he can’t quite make out.

Denzi stares at it for a time, as Kimon shuffles through the last of the box. A few notebooks here, a bottle of half-drunken rum there. Certainly nothing he’d want his fingers on, let alone his lips. Nothing else piques his interest though, and he’s only half willing to dig through more than what they’ve already got. 

They should have been recording themselves going through this box, he thinks.

Denzi still hasn’t stopped staring at that map, he realizes, immediately after.

Kimon looks at him, a bit miffed, “What?” He finally says.

“You know what would be a lot of fun?” Denzi muses, as his fingers trace over the ridges left on the page. He doesn’t turn it over, however. Simply studies it with the sort of critical eye that comes when he’s got a thought he’s trying to expand on.

Kimon immediately does not trust it. 

“What,” It’s less of a question this time.

“We could travel,” Denzi’s tone is carefully playful as he offers the idea, like he’s offering a lantern with an oil leak, “We got this map, right?” On cue, he reaches down to flick the yellowed and torn map a few times, “Lets follow it. We can try and match some of your parents pictures, and take some new video. It would be a LOT of fun. A new series between the two of us, or something,” There’s this grin on his face, but it’s weak, and cheeky. Like he knows he’s asking something he shouldn’t be of Kimon.

Which is fair, because Kimon’s knee-jerk reaction is to tell him, “Hell no,” And to continue that with, “Absolutely not.”

There’s a beat. Him and Denzi look between one another. Denzi waits for his knee jerk reaction to simmer down, because they both know he has a tendency to jump the gun. Kimon waits for Denzi to continue, to try and convince him farther.

Kimon’s reaction doesn’t change, and Denzi gives pause.

“I know you didn’t really want to- Travel or anything this summer. But. It would be different, right? Traveling in Sinnoh was real dangerous, but here we can do it casually. It would be our own thing,” Denzi’s voice takes a far less joking tone. It’s the kind of switch that happens instantaneously, and Kimon is never sure how to take that. He’s never had that level of control, not over his tone, and certainly not over his words. 

His ears flick back, as though to prove his point.

“I- I ‘unno man,” His voice falters. When he goes to find his voice, it’s weak. Pointedly so. Denzi gives him the time to find his words. He can’t help but be thankful for that.

“I don’t think traveling has ever really ended well for me,” He says, and Denzi knows that already.

“Well, I mean,” Denzi at least has the sense to look sheepish at the moment. About to give up a secret he’d been holding. He was good at that- Holding secrets, he thinks, “I’ve been considering it for a week or two now. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? We can like- I don’t know. Meet up with some other content creators? It would be good for the brand,” There’s something humorous, in the way Denzi’s hand brushes against his arm. As though talking about a brand is some super sexy way of convincing him. “I’d go out on my own, but ya know. It’s kinda boring only hitting stupid tourist shit. You’d know some of the hole-in-the wall places, right? I think it would be a hell of a lot more fun traveling together.” 

It is only around this point that Kimon begins to take it seriously.

Denzi has obvious tics when he’s nervous. His tail flicks about in sharp, careful intervals. He fidgets, quietly, against whatever he’s holding. He’s almost always holding something, after all. He rambles, painstakingly so, like he can’t get his thoughts in order. 

An odd look on the man. He always has his thoughts in order.

Denzi’s tail flicks about behind him, hitting the floor in sharp intervals. He fidgets against the page, and when he doesn’t look at Kimon he knows it’s because he’s being careful not to rip the already delicate, glossy paper. And he’s rambling. Stops himself short, because he knows his own tics. But rambling nontheless.

“...” Kimon’s breath is sharp, “I-” He starts. Stops himself. Opens his mouth to start again, “I don’t know,” He says, honestly, “I don’t know if I want to.”

And that’s simple enough. Despite everything, Denzi’s smile is kind to him in turn.

They don’t talk, for a moment. Denzi is rolling up the map, and Kimon is kind of already regretting his answer.

“Yeah,” Denzi tells him, “Don’t worry about it too much. Even if we don’t travel now, we could later, right?” Denzi holds out the map to him, uses the end of it to playfully tap his head. Like hitting a reset button on the mood, “I just think summer is the best time to do it. Everyone is free to do shit, and all the seasonal shit is open. If not busy, I guess.” 

Kimon breaths out, “Nah, dude I-” He snorts, reaches up to block the next hit that comes from the map, “It’s not a no or anything, yeah? I want to think about it for a little bit. It’s not like it’s some major goddamn life changing question or anything. Like you said- We got a bit of time to decide what we want to do. But I also don’t want to just like, impulse pack up or anything this time,” This time, very specifically. 

“This time,” Denzi repeats, bemused. And teasing, “Let me put it like this, then I’ll drop it,” Denzi says, and it’s fair. He wouldn’t deny him the chance to speak, “It would just be the two of us, right? That means we’d get to choose where we go, what we do, and who we’re with. We don’t have any team obligations, no set path,” He leans closer, again. And this time, with the air broken, he’s free to give a mischievous smile. Rest his hand on Kimon’s shoulder, “Just us.”

The idea is nice. Careless. Kimon would be lying if he said that it sells him immediately, but it does put a little faith in his words.

“I’ll think about it,” He repeats, much more casually.

But Denzi smiles, because he knows. They both know.

Kimon will think on it. 

Later.

When Kimon decides to finally clean up the mess they’ve made in his room, it’s about two hours later, and Denzi’s already curled up for the night. The man is normally a late riser. It’s why they’d gotten along so well, really. But he supposes that the heat had gotten to him, and he can’t particularly blame him. So he curls up in a bundle of fluff and fur, tucked against the corner of the wall and the Futon.

He almost misses the last object, in the low light. 

It’s an eyepatch. Thick, sturdy, and leather. It’s tucked against the side of the box, where the notebooks meet the bottle. He’s about to place the pile of tapes back in when it catches his eye. Formless in the shadows of the box.

There’s a deep R burnt into its hide. 

Kimon tries not to understand his roots.

It’s about two days before he puts genuine consideration into the idea.

They're laying in bed together, because the summer night is far more forgiving than midday. Kimon can make out most of Denzi's features in the dark- evolving was far more forgiving to his ability to see during the night then it had been to see during the day. 

Denzi has a tattoo up his arm, you see.

That’s rare in Johto. Associations are bad, and roots are worse. It’s black and white, coils from his wrist in thorns and stops at his biceps in an explosion of petals and buds. He admits, one night early on in their relationship, that it’s a cover up for some scarring. He admits later in their relationship, when they’d both gotten especially drunk, that a roserade gave him the wound. So he’d felt the rose theme fitting.

It fits him. Would give him some trouble, it they traveled, but he’s sure they can work around it.

Here’s the thing.

Silence had always come far more naturally to him then anything else. Its with no amount of pride or edge that he acknowledges that bit of self reflection. Silence is easier. Simpler. 

He'd spent a lot of his life letting other people speak for him, or make his choices. The first time he'd traveled through Johto, it’d been little more than obligation. His twin had wanted to, you see. And when Thales has a want, he knows how to get it. Had always had a particular way with words, he guessed. 

They’d joked about it, once upon a time. Something about Thales stealing his words, and Kimon stealing his talent. 

Going to Sinnoh to meet Denzi had been the first major choice he'd made on his own terms. 

But traveling through Sinnoh had been risky, and stupid to a degree. Though he'd never regretted that, he thinks he enjoyed it more then he had traveling Johto’s routes. 

He thinks, maybe he did enjoy traveling. Even a little.

He thinks, maybe it’s beginning to get a bit boring around here. 

There's exactly one bus stop in New Bark Town, and half the time it's shut down. It's left to sit there, ivy and moss crawling up abandoned metal sides. The path to it has long since become overgrown, and the roads into town are just dirt that’s been packed to the point of no return.

He tells Denzi such. Opens with it, really. 

"A lot of towns in Johto are like that, I think," Kimon admits, quietly. Denzi gives him a curious glance, as though he's not caught on where this is leading into. He's not stupid, Kimon knows. He is not stupid, and Kimon is a sucker, "if you wanna live off the grid, no better place to do it than Johto, right? So.. yeah. I think the only reason we're on the map is because of the labs here. People like that uh- that sciency shit, right?"

"Kimon," he's going to start rambling at this rate, because Denzi isn’t the only one with a nervous tic. The look Denzi gives him is bemused enough to tell him as such. But it’s also expectant, and patient, because he knows Denzi knows that he’s going somewhere with this.

“Yeah,” Kimon says, and almost directly continues with, “There’s a few towns, a few places, that if you want to see them entirely we’re gonna have to walk. I don’t like- Mind walking or anything? Like, I don’t want to walk everywhere. It seems like a pain in the ass. It might be easier to rent bikes, or horses even-”

“Kimon,” Denzi repeats, though he can’t miss the excitement that tinges the edges of his voice. 

So he halts.

Takes a breath.

"It’s just," Kimon decides it’s better not to shit around with this one. He’s been sitting on this one for a few days now, and if he doesn’t say it, he’ll… He rubs the back of his neck, "This is stuff you'll have to know. If you want to travel in Johto, I mean."

The pin drops. Denzi blinks at him, "What?" He says, voice breaking off in a bit of laughter.

"Traveling," Kimon repeats, well and careful, "If we want to do that. We'll want to take buses. I don't think my legs could handle walking everywhere this time around. And, like - I guess trains are an option. But they only connect to the major cities. And, you know, you’ll miss a lot of things if you only take trains places. So… Uh. Buses.”

Denzi is still staring at him. It takes ten seconds for him to say anything. He knows, actually, because he counts it. 

“Wait, wait.” Denzi waves his hand, in the sort of way that implies he just really wants Kimon to take a moment and let him think, “You’re really willing to travel?!”

It sounds so sincere, and surprised, and Kimon isn’t quite sure what to make of that.

“Yeah, man,” Kimon tilts his head, and when he shrugs, it’s tense. Sharp, “I told you. I’d think about it. I thought about it. You knew this was inevitable.”

It takes him five days to decide to go cross country. Denzi’s surprise is probably worth that time.

Denzi grins, “I thought it would take you longer than that to agree! That’s all. That’s all! Really.”

He believes him.

When he tells his mother, she’s not surprised.

He doesn’t need her permission to travel, per-say. In fact, at the time it’s closer to fact that he needed permission to stay under her roof for the summer. For all intent and purposes, he’s been living out of her house since he was 16.

But. He still tells her over coffee the next morning, carefully nudges a bit of eggs away from his rice. Decidedly pierces the fish onto his fork, though. Salmon, by the smell? Certainly better than eggs. Eggs are fucking disgusting.

“Hm,” She says, in a way that’s the least bit judgemental. Her finger traces against the edge of the cup, creating a gentle ring that fills the silence when they do not. It’s its own type of music, familiar and warm, “This wouldn’t happen to do with anything you found, recently. Would it?”

Kimon is careful, with his next words. He doesn’t lie to his mother, because... Well, she’s done nothing to deserve to be lied to. But he knows better than to give her a full truth, when it comes to the dealings of their family history, “It would,” He says, sort of nods along as he does. A finger comes up to mess with a piercing, because suddenly the edge of his ear itches quite a bit, “We found a bunch of old like- Polaroids, and Denzi has this bat-shit plan he wants to do. Figure out where they were taken, I guess? Wants to make this whole series in on it, town by town like he did in Sinnoh. Like- Okay, different premise. He hasn’t really explained it in full, but I think he’s just using it as an excuse to travel.”

“Kimon,” She tilts her head when she speaks. Lowers her shoulders with a way he knows is a loss of composure. He presses the tip of his tongue to one of his lip rings, and brings a hand up to momentarily hide that he does that.

Denzi is in the bedroom, already planning on what they’ll need to pack. They’re lucky, because they have cash between the two of them. But to keep that cash they need to bring equipment, and equipment can be bulky in travel. 

He’ll learn to sacrifice lighting again, he supposes. Maybe upgrade his storage system, finally.

Kimon brushes into the edge of his hair with his fingers. He doesn’t need to dye his hair black anymore. Four years in, and it’s still a novelty, “I think it’s gonna be a bit of fun, at least.”

“Kimon,” Kioko repeats, carefully. She has this knowing glint in her gaze. Like he’s caught in a lie he didn’t know he started. She knows very well what they found, and while she’ll save him the embarrassment of saying it...

“Promise me the two of you aren’t going to go looking for trouble,”

Kimon almost laughs. He’s careful not to. “I wouldn’t,” He tells her, in confidence. The look she shares says she doesn’t believe him, “I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to you. I don’t really wanna...” He ignores the way his fingers grip at his glass, “I just want to enjoy my fucking summer, you know?”

And her composure returns.

“Alright,” She says, and the ringing against the cup stops, “Okay. Thank you.”

He’s not particularly sure he should be saying you’re welcome. So he shoves the fish in his mouth and begins to plan where they wander first.

_Kimon stares into the camera and counts to three._

_“Hey guys, so this video is a little unconventional,” When Kimon runs his hand through his hair, it’s not an intentional gesture. He’s been doing videos for a few years now, so nerves are an oddity, “And probably really different from what I normally do.”_

_“Probably?” Denzi laughs from behind the camera, purposefully judgemental and loud. But there’s this twinkle to his eyes, and he moves his hand in a way that tells him to continue._

_“Shut the fuck up, this was your idea!” Kimon can’t help but bring his hand up and rub his eyes, that sort of exasperation that is normally for show, “Alright, so. Uh- Not my normal video. I have something to- Dammit. You threw me off.”_

_“Hey, I’m not here right now! No one know’s I exist yet.”_

_“Okay, okay, hold on,” Kimon counts to three again, “Alright, So. This isn’t my normal video style, and I know I kinda promised to try and do consistent uploads this upcoming season,” Him and Denzi exchange a small, knowing look. He’ll have to edit it out in post._

_“Here’s about where I’m at right now...”_

The road to Route Twenty-Nine teeters off to non-existence the moment it begins, leaving a mix of wildflower and grass-weed to take over in its place. His feet get tangled in the roots, and the long grass brushes against his cheek, and for a moment he’s left standing. Breathless.

He needs to exercise more. He’s literally breathless. 

Despite being the one with a busted knee, Denzi lets him lean against him as he attempts to breathe. Shifts most of his weight against his good leg, holds Kimon’s weight as he leans against him, “I’ve always hated that fucking hill,” Kimon tells him, annoyance fake and sharp.

Denzi laughs, “Maybe you’re just a bit lazy?” 

A breeze flutters through the branches. The wild flowers are a mix of blue and yellow, turned to face them like they’re watching their every step.

When Denzi steps forward, it’s careful. He takes a moment to unloop his foot from the roots instead of ripping through them.

“You’re uh-” Kimon starts, before realizing he doesn’t actually know how he’s going to ask, “You’re gonna be alright man, right?” He tries not to give a pointed glance to the man’s knee brace. He fails, of course, to not give a pointed glance to the man’s knee brace. 

For the first time in a while, the smile on Denzi’s face feels like it had when Kimon had first met him.

“Dude,” He says, “I’m gonna be fucking fantastic.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kimon  
> Brave Nature  
> New Bark Town  
> Met LvL 5  
> Sturdy Body
> 
> Denzi  
> Lax Nature  
> Route 46  
> Met at LvL 2   
> Loves to eat
> 
> Well. This was a long time coming!!  
> Like a long time coming.
> 
> Uhhhhm unofficially, I guess don’t expect this to update on a set schedule. As shown, I prefer very long updates that get through a certain place in one particular sitting. The only place I can think of ending up in multiple parts is probably gonna be like?? Goldenrod. But that’s a LONG time away, and also a shame because Ecruteak is where that bitch is at.
> 
> Anyway, the most I’ve written ahead is the junk where I’m like “hm I’m bored let me work on a completely different part of this run.” and then get distracted by that for two days straight. 
> 
> This run is also going to be set up in a fun way I like to call Multi-Character Drifting. I won’t spoil the surprise, but next chapter Isn’t Going to be told from Kimon’s perspective. And that switch is going to be going every other chapter.
> 
> I guess some other important facts 
> 
> Despite being in Another World I Guess, I’m going to use a lot of brand names.
> 
> Capitalism is cross-dimensional?? I’m sure I’ll get bored at some point, and create a bunch of pun names. 
> 
> Yes, these tools are youtubers. This is about the 2012 era, that weird transitionary period of Youtube where a lot of people were finally figuring out how to use like actual camera software and set up lighting and stuff.  
> Seriously, the transitionary period between 2009 and 2013 is FASCINATING for Youtube. 
> 
> Ah, yes, me preference for writing for established relationships... That will pop up a lot in this nuzlocke. 
> 
> This nuzlocke? Entirely redcore. Gym fights? Nah, we’re just here to travel, shoot youtube videos, and get involved with the mob. Everything is fine.
> 
> Next chapters word count goal is 7k.
> 
> For image credits, visit it's home on The Nuzlocke Forums.  
> https://nuzlockeforums.com/forum/index.php?threads/itinerant-a-randomized-heartgold-and-polished-crystal-run.49/


End file.
